


Livin' My Life Like It's Golden

by Frosting50



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Gay Porn Hard, Getting Together, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frosting50/pseuds/Frosting50
Summary: Post third cup win porn, with bonus feelings.





	Livin' My Life Like It's Golden

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Jill Scott's "Golden"

Everything's a blur, a champagne soaked blur. Even looking back on hoisting the Stanley Cup for the third time feels like nothing more than a hazy memory, time worn and faded, the edges hazy from swilling champagne and chugging beers and taking victory shots with the entire city of Chicago, despite being just days ago.

Patrick leans against the leather banquette that the team had commandeered that night, or early this morning, if he's being accurate. He sighs, contented, as he surveys the crowd: fans pushing in close, camera phones held high, and the blaring dance music dulled by the roars of his team—his boys—as they pour waterfalls of champagne into the Stanley Cup and then into open waiting mouths, because they motherfucking did it Stanley Cup champions. Again.

He smiles a pleased smile, wide and easy, as he watches the crowd feeling a bit like a prince surveying his kingdom. "You're drunk." Jonny observes dropping down to sit next to him.

Patrick only smiles wider, letting his eyes rake over Jonny taking in his terrible beard; body, thin from the post-season grind; and his own smile, terribly fond and all for Patrick. "Yeah," Patrick concedes, but he’s not terribly concerned about it. "And you are too! You better be. Jonny- Jonny- Jonny-" this is important—he wants to make sure Jonny's listening to him and not distracted by the girls in low cut dresses hanging just on the periphery of the velvet rope or by Seabs passing out suspicious looking bright pink shots—"Jonny-"

"Patrick," Jonny says, his own smile getting a little wider, almost laughing.

"Jonny, we won the Stanley Cup!"

Jonny's eyes go wide, "we did?" 

"Jonny-" Patrick starts, but is interrupted when Jonny doubles over laughing, clearly so pleased with himself.

"You're an asshole," Patrick says, no bite to it. Too full up on victory, too damn happy with everything and everyone in his life right now.

He sinks a little lower in his seat, listing slightly into Jonny, letting him take some of his weight. Jonny's hot, so hot that Patrick can feel the heat leaching through his thin dress shirt and their skin getting slightly damp everywhere they're touching. He nudges his foot against Jonny's keeping his head straight ahead, watching Saader and Shawsy in some sort of bro dance-off. Some sort of _bad_ bro dance-off. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jonny glance at him quickly and away, before pressing his thigh firmly into Patrick's own. "Let's go," Jonny answers the unasked question, and Patrick doesn't even try to keep his grin from splitting his face wide.

***

Unfortunately, when you're the motherfucking Stanley Cup Champions, you can't leave any club as quickly and discreetly as you might like. It takes them another hour to say goodbye to the boys, and by the time they finally exit they've each taken a few more shots and are fully soaked after Duncs got a little over enthusiastic spraying champagne.

The street isn't even close to deserted, not when the entire city is tracking their movements via Twitter, but they stumble out and into the waiting car, waving for the fans desperate for a glance of the Cup or one of their favorite players.

Patrick's grateful—not for the first time—that the Hawks are a first class organization, and that this car is Hawks supplied, complete with a driver who no doubt signed the world's most ironclad NDA. Jonny gives his address, and tugs Patrick into his side. He goes easily enough, pliant with liquor and barely restrained desire. It's been forever since they've done this. There were a few handjobs exchanged during the past few months, hurried and efficient, neither up for much more than getting off quickly as bodies absorbed the usual blows and violence of playoff hockey. 

But it's been awhile since they've done _this_ : falling into each other when they're the best parts of the best things in each other's lives. This easy ask and answer, push-pull that has defined their relationship from the very beginning. Patrick can feel the tension building with each slow swipe of Jonny's thumb across his bicep, and he wants.

They make it to Jonny's place gratifyingly quickly, and the slow and steady pace that has defined the whole evening thus far follows them inside. Jonny pulls Patrick into a kiss as soon as the door clicks shut. He holds Patrick's biceps firmly, directs the kiss from the go and Patrick can feel himself sinking into it. There's no pretense of "did you want water" or putting on Sports Center—they're not rookies anymore; they know what they're about. 

They step apart, just slightly, lips parting audibly as they drink each other in. Patrick swipes his tongue across his lower lip, feels a little fission of pleasure as Jonny tracks the movement, eyes darkening. "Upstairs?" Jonny asks, voice even like he wouldn't mind if Patrick decided he wanted that water after all, but his body betrays him: flush high on his cheeks and fingers making rents in Patrick's shirt as he starts to pull him in that direction. 

Patrick's not even going to pretend that it isn't exactly what he wants. "Yeah," he says, smiling a little too hard to execute the kiss he's aiming for. He settles for nuzzling his head into Jonny's neck briefly, before grabbing his hand and leading him upstairs, as if this were his place and not Jonny's.

When they finally make it to Jonny's room, Patrick pauses imperceptibly just inside the doorway, before Jonny steers him over to the bed, hand warm on the small of his back.

They remove clothes with an efficiency born of years of fast changes in locker rooms too numerous to count. Stopping every so often to meet eyes and smile. Patrick's been floating on a wave of happiness since the seconds ran out in the third period, since he got to watch Jonny lift up the Cup for the third time, since he got to hoist the Cup. And this? Being here with Jonny, early dawn light pouring in through the sheer window coverings making Jonny’s perpetually tanned skin glow golden is doing nothing to dull the sparks that have been buzzing under his skin since Jonny first touched him with intent. There's certainly a time and a place for ripped buttons and bodies slamming against walls and kisses that are biting and bruising. But there's also a time for this: this sticky, sweet, slow build, lazy and some kind of wonderful.

Jonny's slow with the prep, spending long minutes doing little more than drawing his fingers across Patrick's bared skin, causing Patrick to shiver and his nipples to draw into tight pink buds even as his cock starts to swell. He'd be hard already, no doubt without all the champagne and beer and vodka that's coursing through him. When Jonny finally gets the lube he warms it before inserting one slim digit into Patrick's tight hole.

Patrick hisses even as he clenches down on Jonny's finger; it really has been a while since they've done this, and as much as he hooks up, he only ever does _this_ with Jonny. Jonny's finger stills, "Fuck, Pat, so fucking tight."

"Guh," Patrick answers nonsensically, willing himself to relax and letting out a groan as Jonny's finger slips in all the way, just brushing at his prostrate. "Oh," he breathes, taking in Jonny's determined look and self-satisfied grin, smaller and less smug than his usual smirks.

Jonny withdraws, circling the hole lightly making Patrick tremble slightly, before pushing back in with two fingers and then three.

Time slows to a crawl as Jonny finger fucks Patrick like he’s got all the time in the world, like this is the main event. Each thrust in lights Patrick up, tingles traveling up his spine. Part of him wants to get a hand on his cock, so hard now, tip red and shiny, but the other part of him wants this to last forever.

Sweat is starting to bead up on Jonny’s forehead and he withdraws his fingers, tugging a bit at Patrick’s rim. “Now?" he asks? voice so rough and fucked out that it makes Patrick’s cock pulse, a dribble of precome smearing on his abs.

“Yes, yes,” Patrick says, drawing Jonny in for a kiss, as if acknowledging what’s about to happen dials the intensity level up to an eleven. 

Jonny fumbles a condom out of the pack and smooths it over his dick, one hand tight at the base as if to stave off his own orgasm. And that fingering Patrick open got Jonny this damn close is so fucking hot Patrick can barely breathe, want and arousal choking him up.

When Jonny fits himself at Patrick’s opening, tip just barely in, it’s so close to what Patrick wants and no where near enough. He pauses, shifting a bit, pulling Patrick’s ass up for a better angle before pressing in slow and steady and so damn good. He gets the angle exactly right and Patrick just keens, arching slightly up; he grabs Jonny’s bicep with one hand, fingers clenching tightly and just holds on as Jonny fucks him.

It doesn’t take long before Jonny’s thrusts lose their measured quality, coming sharper and harder, Patrick making little punched out noises every time he bottoms out. “Close,” Jonny grunts, fingers pressed tight to Patrick’s skin as he holds Patrick’s hips up to keep the angle. “Touch yourself” he says, and each word sounds gutted, as if it took all of his energy to get out the direction.

Patrick doesn’t argue, immediately getting a hand on himself, each stroke a delicious juxtaposition to the almost too-full feeling of Jonny’s cock driving in. His orgasm nearly takes him by surprise; he moans as he spills over his fist. It must be just what Jonny needed, because he finishes moments later, head falling forward with a groan as his hips pump a few more times before stilling.

“Jesus, Peeks,” Jonny says a moment later, slightly out of breath. He starts to pull out, tracing the rim of Patrick’s hole as it clings to Jonny’s cock. He teases just the tip of a finger in alongside the head of his dick and Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat. Jonny shushes him, tracing his finger around one last time before withdrawing completely. “So fucking hot.”

“Mmmmm,” Patrick acknowledges, stretching out and feeling the fuck in every muscle of his body. The last few days and drinks catching up to him all at once. He closes his eyes for a beat, wanting to savor this, the well-worn achy feeling of a game well-played, of a job well done.

“Night, babe,” Jonny whispers, pushing the sweaty curls off of Patrick’s forehead.

“Not sleeping,” Patrick mumbles, “just resting my eyes a sec.”

***  
When Patrick opens his eyes again, late morning sun is peeking through a crack in the curtains that Jonny must have drawn at some point last night. His skin is clean and Jonny must have pulled up the comforter over them at some point, though he’s since kicked it off and Patrick takes a minute to appreciate the tableau presented there: Jonny naked and face down, skin golden and face slack with sleep.

Patrick’s always loved him like this, face so soft and open. He knows there’s good reason for Jonny—for both of them—to be guarded and in control, but he loves that Jonny can be relaxed like this with him.

He should probably get dressed and head back to his, he’s pretty sure there’s a barbecue or a baseball game or a boat tour or something later that they committed to at some point last night, but, well, he just doesn’t want to. He turns to watch Jonny instead, zoning out a bit.

“Stop staring,” Jonny mumbles, barely turning his face from where it’s smashed into his forearm. “Take a picture it’ll last longer.”

Patrick starts back a second, and says “Maybe I will, but that’s on you when my phone gets hacked.”

Jonny’s head shoots up, and he’s attempting to glare at Patrick, but it’s effectiveness is diminished by the bedhead and red crease lines on his cheek.

“Kidding, kidding,” Patrick says raising his hands placatingly and digging a toe into Jonny’s exposed calf.

Jonny traps his foot and drags the rest of Patrick too until he’s settled atop Jonny, bare skin everywhere and his dick twitches, increasingly much more interested in the proceedings.

Jonny presses a kiss to Patrick’s neck, just below his ear, it’s slow with a hint of tongue and he whispers, “morning breath.” The words skate over the damp sensitive skin and make Patrick shiver.

He huffs a surprised laugh out and makes to move, but Jonny encircles his arms around Patrick’s back and holds him tight. “Stay.”

Patrick lifts his head to look Jonny in the eyes, they don’t usually go for seconds in the morning. 

“Stay.” Jonny repeats, licking his lips and forcing a smile—more of a grimace really—like he’s psyching himself up for something. “You could stay. I mean-” his voice cracks a little, and he ducks his head down, shy in a way that Patrick’s never seen before “do you ever think about maybe- Would you want to do this for real?”

Patrick pulls back then. All the way back. Sitting up on Jonny’s lap, ass pressed to Jonny’s thick cock and for once not thinking about it at all.

“You mean, you want?” He pauses, brain playing furious catch-up. “You wanna like date?”

Jonny’s eyes are dark, determined, like Patrick’s the puck and this is a face-off he’s determined to win: game seven, all on the line. “Yes,” he says with a decisive little nod, “I think we should stop screwing around and date.”

Patrick’s never seriously entertained the idea of dating Jonny, not really. Sure, occasionally his traitorous heart would take a look at Jonny—scoring a short-handed goal, or shooting the shit with the boys after practice, or bending down to talk to a Make-a-Wish kid, or standing in his kitchen in clingy basketball shorts and a threadbare t-shirt telling Patrick earnestly about the benefits of organic produce, or fucking Patrick so good he loses all sense of time—and he’d thought “maybe.” But he’s gotten really good at stomping that inclination down.

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, pausing for a minute to take in Jonny’s face. To someone who doesn’t know him, he might look disinterested, but after this many years Patrick is fluent in Toewsian expressions. Patrick knows that there’s tightness around the eyes and that his mouth looks slightly grumpy because his teeth are no doubt clenched as he waits impatiently on Patrick. “Well,” Jonny says, pissy to Patrick’s well trained ear.

“Well,” Patrick says, hands flat on his thighs, “I don’t know if I want to date you if we have to _stop screwing around_.” He’s laughing by the end, pleased with himself, Jonny half-heartedly glaring at him. Patrick sobers, “duh you idiot, I’ve only been a little in love with you for years.”

Jonny smiles then, small and real and so unbelievably fond. And for once Patrick doesn’t look away, looks his fill instead at this smile that’s just for him. “Only a little, huh?” Jonny says, threading his fingers through Patrick’s and pulling him back down to lay on his chest. “Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He kisses Patrick then, morning breath be damned, and Patrick can’t help but sigh into it, body melting against Jonny’s.

They kiss languorously, pulling back every so often to grin up at each other. Their bodies are moving lazily, sweat slick skin sliding easily, cocks brushing together, pleasure building, but no real urgency.

Jonny palms Patrick’s ass cheeks, squeezing, and pulling them apart enough to skate a teasing fingertip against Patrick’s hole. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and buries his face Jonny’s neck, nipping lightly. “Sore,” he whispers, never taking his lips away from Jonny’s skin.

Jonny presses in gently before withdrawing his fingers, smoothing his hands along Patrick’s flanks.

“Stop,” Patrick grumbles, turning his head to meet Jonny’s questioning eyes. “I can feel your smug smile from here.”

Jonny tightens his grip on Patrick’s hips, laughing, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re terrible, I take it all back.” Patrick darts in for another kiss, tugging on Jonny’s lower lip, just a little. He feels Jonny’s cock twitch against his own, a little aborted thrust into the join of hip and thigh. Patrick pulls back, licking his lips and watching Jonny’s eyes go hot as they follow the slow sweep of his tongue. 

He sits back further, settling Jonny’s cock so it’s pressing between his cheeks and he rakes his fingers down Jonny’s chest, smiling at the faint red lines that appear and then fade.

“Tease.” Jonny says, voice rough and Patrick laves his lower lip again, loving the way it makes Jonny’s cheeks flush.

“Nah,” he says easily, sliding down Jonny’s body, until he’s kneeing in the the spread of Jonny’s legs. He takes Jonny’s cock into his hands, sliding precome along the shaft before pressing the head to his lips. 

“Fuck,” Jonny groans, hands flying up to Patrick’s hair and then to his shoulders, grip light.

Patrick smiles up at him, grin wide, “You should pull my hair, I like it.”

“Jesus,” Jonny breathes out before threading his fingers through Patrick’s curls and guiding him back to his leaking cock.

Patrick takes him in, letting Jonny slowly push his head down. He loves this, always has. Loves the heavy feeling of a cock on his tongue, loves the small spurts of salty precome, loves taking it so deep that for brief moments he can’t breathe at all; loves it when he can’t think of anything else other than what he’s doing, Jonny totally overwhelming all his senses. 

He pulls back to take a breath before diving back in, reveling in the full feeling, Jonny’s cock stretching his mouth wide, the pull at the corner of his lips a lovely counterpoint to how good this feels. He swallows around Jonny’s cock, backing off just slightly when Jonny presses up.

“Sorry, Sorry,” Jonny breathes, hands patting Patrick’s curls ineffectually.

Patrick doesn’t say anything just redoubles his efforts, taking all of Jonny back in and rolling his balls in his hands.

“Fuck, baby, so good.” Jonny groans, tugging on Patrick’s hair.

Patrick presses a palm against his own dick, needing a little something to take the edge off.

He keeps the pressure steady, suction and rhythm strong and exactly what Jonny likes best. 

“Pat, Pat,” Jonny groans, trying to push Patrick off his dick, but Patrick won’t move, doesn’t want to move. He just looks up at Jonny through spiky lashes and hollows his cheeks around Jonny as he falls apart. Patrick swallows catching a missed drop at the corner of his mouth when he releases Jonny’s cock with an audible pop.

Patrick rests back on his heels, admiring the view of a totally spent Jonny as he strokes his cock firmly, already so close it’s not going to take much.

“C’mere” Jonny says flopping a hand in Patrick’s direction.

Patrick goes easily, fitting himself against Jonny. He thrusts against Jonny’s side, hand moving steadily. Jonny’s wraps his hand around Patrick’s and strokes him up and down, tight pressure and a slight twist at the end. “So good, Peeks. So fucking good for me, baby. You gonna give it up for me? On me?”

Patrick doesn’t know if it’s their hands, or the dirty grind, or Jonny’s urging, but he’s coming so hard that his vision whites out a little at the edges.

After, they spend long moments dozing. Patrick’s skin buzzes everywhere they’re touching, he turns his head to place a soft kiss on the cap of Jonny’s shoulder. Jonny smiles at him, a tiny little thing, and all his. He’s never been happier.


End file.
